Glass Eyes
by death-in-the-orchard
Summary: Police detective Bernard Simmons of Scotland Yard has taken it upon himself to track down the one responsible for several disappearances and murders in London. This story takes place during Van Hellsing's time and includes John Seward as well as the former Count Dracula.
1. Chapter 1

The eyes of glass… Eyes of glass…

Dark eyes, darker for the vision that stole the light of consciousness from them, saw nothing of the interior of the coach. The ears of the dark haired man heard nothing of the urban nightlife, nothing of the clopping hooves, the whinny of a beast held still. Bernard F. Simmons beheld the past, dead contents, that cloaked his vision of the present – as if he had lifted the white sheet whose aim is to make the gore, the horror of a corpse vanish beneath it. Not yet a veteran of Scotland Yard, and destined to never reach the fantastic genius and fame of his literary counterparts, Mr. Simmons was a man supported by a strictly human nature and led by a raw human mind sporting a healthy collection of Victorian ideals.

Once his darkened eyes had brightened and the powers of his senses had returned him to the physical present, and his experienced reality had been planted on the cobblestones set before the doctor's madhouse, Mr. Simmons' character began to surface. The chronic indecision that had plagued him since adolescence sent the end of his cane tapping frantically against the side of a polished shoe, raised from the pavement by nervous habit. Abruptly the cane and foot swung forward together, meeting awkwardly before the first step ascending to the doctor's door, the right hand and right foot disagreeing with the unnatural synchronization. Bernard swallowed, pausing to wipe his brow with a clean handkerchief as his cane rested in the crook of his arm. Together with the dabbing of the cloth and a slight breeze, the poor man was soon stooping for his tumbling hat. He ended the chase, secured his possession to his head, and hurried to the door. The man who greeted him was met with a disheveled, red-faced and grinning gentleman he knew not what to do with for the first few moments of their acquaintance. Then the gentleman introduced himself, stating his business before entering, though the invitation had been given, and Bernard was soon led to the doctor's office.

The memory of the embarrassing spectacle that had occurred before the coach driver prevented Bernard from responding to the offer to give his coat, cane, and hat to the man who had let him in. So the anxious man was left to hold his hat and cane in his lap as he awaited the doctor, not knowing where else to store them. Now inside, he was beginning to feel stifled by his coat. But as refreshments were brought in and the doctor entered, these discomforts were forgotten and for the first time since his arrival, Bernard was capable of acting in a calm and professional manner. Lack of sleep, however, being unaware of the state of his own face, remained in the dark rings of the man's eyes that gave them a pitted, yet determined, appearance of one who needed but refused rest.

Since it had been some time since his last visit to the doctor, Bernard had expected Dr. Seward to require a second introduction, but he was pleasantly surprised to find that the doctor had not forgotten him and had indeed been thinking of him and his concerns, which had a reassuring effect on the police detective, who was able to relax and nod as the doctor quickly summarized their last conversation after the proper greetings and sociable inquiries after Bernard's health and family had turned to the purpose of the second visit.

"Your mind has not changed, then. You continue to suspect that the disappearances and assumed deaths of those who have been brought to your attention – as well as to the attention of others in your field, quite a number of crimes – are in fact being carried out by a single perpetrator? You continue to question what part my old friend and acquaintance has…in these cases?" Dr. Seward's hand stirred cream into his coffee, the tinking of metal on porcelain finishing with a few ringing taps against a saucer. He sipped from the pool of liquid caramel as his eyes noted the neglect Mr. Simmons' beverage was receiving. He encouraged the nodding man, who was agreeing with what had been said, to enjoy his hospitality. With a second push of encouragement, Bernard complied, swallowing without taking the time to dilute the coffee with any of the items he was offered. The beverage seemed to have lost its ability to influence the detective, a drug too much relied on in the past and now useless though the man's need for it continued and even worsened. Seward observed the exhaustion that an overactive conscious had pressed into the man's face, casting shadows on the markings left there by age, which made them more defined. Age became hard to determine when men reached this state, the depletion of energy depleting the reserves of youth – but this has been seen to work against the flow of time as well, making old men young when their faces become animated and their bodies exude energy. The caramel liquid warmed his throat as it sharpened his perception of the detective.

Dr. Seward discarded a rueful smile before the detective was allowed to see it, and then placed his cup on the low table that separated Mr. Simmons from himself. His expression had become more professional, though still open and friendly when he addressed his visitor again. But soon a rapid knock sounded at the door, jarring the detective as the urgency behind it grated against his nerves and widened his eyes. His neck snapped as he followed the darting form of the doctor - Seward strode to the door and promptly excused himself. There were muffled voices outside that were replaced by the sound of running feet.

There was nothing more unsettling to Bernard Simmons than the sound of a doctor sprinting down a corridor. The civilized atmosphere had been shoved aside to make room for the recollection that this was a house for the clinically insane.

Sitting as still and straight as a cactus with needles growing inward to attack the self rather than outward to protect him, and in an environment that had gone from comfort and calm to alarm and fear at the drop of a dime, it took Bernard several moments to realized the hat which he had placed on the handle of his cane in his lap was now coated in hot coffee. Juggling with his alarm and the mess before him, hesitation prolonged by an attack of indecision led to a hasty grab for a cloth napkin and a flutter of motions towards dabbing at the hat, which were stopped by the memory that he had once been advised to use water for these sorts of things. But Bernard was unsure if 'these sorts of things' specifically included spilling hot coffee on this particular accessory to his person. However, as was usually the case, the fit of insecurity subsided and the man had dabbed and soaked up the dampness until he was content to leave it as it was. Dr. Seward returned when Bernard was again calm and settled quietly in his chair.

Apologizing for the sudden abandonment, but without offering an explanation - which seemed peculiar to Bernard - Dr. Seward resumed his position opposite to the detective and was again displaying an easy, reassuring countenance which consisted of a genuine, though not strong, smile and a warmth that brightened the man's green eyes. Specks of yellow seemed to ebb from the eyes, as if a part of the man's character were receding, subsiding to bring forth the man that smiled at the detective. A sip of coffee seemed to profess that all was well and that business should be seen to before the detective lost more time to another unexpected rapping on the door.

Bernard's curiosity would not let him rest. He asked Dr. Seward rather directly, making sure their eyes met, "What was the emergency?" He blinked at the curving lips, straightening a bit in his chair as he paused to reflect on what he knew and thought he understood about John Seward. "I assume that I am not in your way…as long as you have yet to ask me to leave…" The slow speech was finally rewarded.

"A patient wanted my attention."

"I am not interfering with your work?" Bernard continued, though the doctor was shaking his head. Verbal response. I want a- "You are not needed elsewhere, Doctor?" Easy questions that receive answers will loosen his tongue…hopefully. …His type-

Bernard began to listen as Seward spoke.

"I believe that I am needed in this room at the moment. If there was another who could replace me I am sure that you would have gone elsewhere, Detective. My assistants can act without me for now, but you seem to need something from me." The tone was kind, as was the outward nature of this scientist. Bernard watched closely, a blunted finger rubbing unconsciously over the wet remnants of coffee on his hat. However, Dr. Seward still possessed the intellectual round-about speech that always strained the detective's patience and left him with a throbbing pain that never resulted from exchanging words with more down-to-earth, direct folk. Though the scholarly men were more articulate with their word choice and perfectly sober –in the sense that they had not been drinking, some seemed capable of detaching themselves from the world without the help of liquor- Bernard felt that he could gain more insight from a drunkard's undirected ramblings than an intellectual's response to a question. There was nothing intimidating in what Dr. Seward had said so far, but the wordy responses…the vagueness reminded Bernard of his last visit. It also reminded him of the man he sought to know.

Bernard took a moment to cough into his handkerchief and then tucked the cloth away, all to hide a grimace his thoughts had caused. "Again, since I was unable to grasp what you said before, could you (precisely and plainly, please) describe to me Sir Hellsing's occupation?" The finger rubbed at the damp coffee. Dr. Seward watched before showing faint amusement for the detective's expression, which had been purposefully deadened by willpower and concentration.

"Dr. Van Hellsing – as you know, this is how I tend to address him, though I am well aware of his new title – is a man who serves Great Britain."

Bernard's head throbbed, and he jerked as if from a pain. He was frowning sharply when he gave a curt nod. "As you have told me."

"His income is paid for by Queen Victoria."

The detective nodded, eyes closing for a moment, his finger now tapping instead of rubbing his hat. "Yes, as you've said."

Seward was smiling brightly, both kind and disturbing as he knitted his fingers together in his lap as if that was all there was to be said. The gesture did not seem to suffice, so he spoke. "There you have it, Detective. His occupation lies within the Queen's service."

There was another, deeper, sigh from Bernard, and he took to rubbing his temple instead of his hat. His eyes squinted shut. "I am interested in details, Dr. Seward. Not many seem to know them, so I have come to you, again, for the purpose of uncovering them. What is it the man does, Dr. Seward? I know he is wealthy. I know of his connections. I want to know what it is he does with his time."

Seward interrupted, humored again. "You suspect that Queen Victoria has coerced this man to kidnap and murder her subjects, Detective?"

Annoyance was clear in the sharp look that was thrown at the doctor, but Dr. Seward seemed to receive it with indifference. Bernard's teeth dug into the fleshy interior of his cheek as he held back his feelings of frustration and the budding distaste he seemed to be developing for the doctor. His body moved as he spoke, restlessness concentrated mostly in his arms and hands, while his teeth barely parted. "I want to know what it is Sir Hellsing does to earn his livelihood. If it involves no dishonesty, then why is it so closely guarded? Why has it become a secret? I've heard rumors tell of a private army or of unethical experimentation on animals. Of the creation of weapons. Guns and chemicals are shipped into a private establishment. The police are waved off as if they have no authority –as we do not, in fact, seem to have any authority, any means to pry or question, when it comes to Sir Hellsing's business." His eyes were bright, his voice sharp as his blood heated. Seward watched in silence, no smile warming his features though he showed no signs of hostility. But in Bernard's mind, he had gained more of the doctor's attention, and this motivated him to continue as his back left the cushions of the armchair – he leaned forward, almost crushing his hat.

"This man is a foreigner, who appears suddenly, apparently in response to your invitation, and is, in a matter of months, corresponding with the ruler of the most powerful nation on Earth. He seems to have accomplished everything a scholar might wish to achieve, looking back at his education and the impressive string of letters he has earned beside his name – a doctor of all sorts, as I've seen it. A Dutch man, well established, and yet without a wife or a family to account for at his age-?"

The detective flinched at the unexpected edge in Seward's voice. "Detective." There was a short pause which permitted Bernard's uneasiness to sprout once more. Shoes, dulled by a cane, shifted nervously. "Dr. Van Hellsing is married. Unfortunately-" green soaked in the man's surprise, "-unfortunately, Mrs. Hellsing…is not in a state that permits her…to have contact with society."

Puzzled and made uneasy by the doctor's halting speech, Bernard tightened his jaw and waited. "In more exact terms-"

"In more exact terms," there was a pitch of mockery that faded as Seward examined the detective's genuine confusion he had misinterpreted as distaste, and he forgave him, "She is mad, but not due to some fault in Dr. Van Hellsing. She was not a woman of…a strong constitution. …She could not withstand the loss of their only child. …Dr. Van Hellsing, understandably, does not wish to make this common knowledge. He is not ashamed of her –it is not that. He pities her, and he suffers due to the love he had, and perhaps, still maintains for her. Others do not know Mrs. Hellsing, and do not know who she once was. They would not be able to understand, to be able to see the soul of a madwoman. Preconceptions regarding the insane prevent a general understanding of their situation. I have had my patients make attempts on my life-" Bernard showed both alarm and amazement. He continued to listen with a sort of disgusted awe. "-but I cannot hold it against them. I may not possess the same feelings of patience and pity for a time, but then I will be filled with more compassion, more than before, because I know that it is not within their nature to be violent. They do not wish to kill me. They are lost, unable to reason, unable to behave appropriately, to give the appropriate responses that truly communicate what they are feeling. An insane man still has emotions. The personality is not lost completely – or else recovery would be unconceivable, and then we might just as well disregard the advancements made since Pinel and lock away the disturbed minds so the sane do not have to be bothered with them. Since it would be impossible to retrieve the person they were before the madness set in – before they had lost control – they might as well be pronounced dead."

Bernard rubbed the damp mark on his hat, waiting, as if he expected the stain to suddenly dry. Intellectuals, scholars, all of them seemed to have ways of being swept off their feet, like young men in love, but with the topics that impassioned them instead of a pretty girl. Or like a captain questioned about his ship... -Interesting, to him it was certainly interesting, but it was not in the direction he had hoped the conversation would go. He wanted to know about Abraham Van Hellsing. But now he had not the heart to force the change in topic.

…These men always made his skull ache. Simply ache.

But Dr. Seward took reign and turned the conversation back towards the man in question, reading the detective's hesitation and resuming his pleasant tone. "Dr. Van Hellsing is a good man."

A look was exchanged between the men. The statement was simple, but there was emotion, there was faith placed behind it. This was truly Dr. Seward's impression of the mysterious man. Bernard's face creased as his brow scrunched and his mouth folded into a deep frown. He breathed in deeply. A wave of fatigue swept over him, but he stood fast, his feet planted level on the rug while he sat up straight. "Why- What makes you think of this man so highly?"

When there was no response. Bernard's attention flicked away from the coffee cup it had settled on, and reached Seward's pensive expression. He caught the analysis that was in progress as Seward studied him for a time. "I would like to know what makes you suspect him of these crimes. If it is simply the vicinity of their occurrence and their distance from his estate…or simply the mystery that has engrossed you… But I will answer you." His gaze was direct; not cold, not hard, but honest. "Dr. Van Hellsing is a good man. I owe my life…and much more to him." Dark eyes had narrowed at this. Seward noticed. "I was wounded and expected to die, and if not for his actions, I would have. Now, that makes me partial, more willing to accept any faults the man might have. But there is no evil within him, nor any madness. And he would need either one or the other to commit the atrocities you suspect him for. He is not an unethical man. He is a strong Catholic – perhaps not ideal, yes, not for this time, not for here, but it is what it is. He has few friends, but each and every one of those relations might as well be blood ties. He is respected. And he is admired."

Yes. Certainly by you, he is. "But what is it he does? What are his habits? Actions are better at providing an impartial description of a character, Dr. Seward. That is what I need."

And it is clearly not what you are getting. Dr. Seward sighed quietly and took a moment to either recover from his lengthy speech or to collect his thoughts. "Dr. Van Hellsing is a tinkerer."

"Pardon?" The detective squinted and leaned forward.

"A tinkerer." Dr. Seward repeated, full of patience. "He will play with any oddity, dismantle it and put the pieces back in place, create his own copy of it, make adjustments or improvements – he is a man brimming with a thirst, perhaps not always for knowledge, but for the ability – to have an understanding of the world he perceives around him – the world he does not know. He is a scientist at heart, an intellectual, as well as a child."

This interested Bernard, having not expected to find such a disagreeable trait in the doctor's description. He was expecting the man to paint him an idealized figure, a shining idol, as he had witnessed admirers do for others they believed deserved to be exalted with words.

"Dr. Van Hellsing has a very simple curiosity, and a strong-willed, self-motivating way of reaching an answer. If something is unproven but accepted, he will attempt to provide it with either physical evidence or logic he might agree with. He does not aim to explore himself, but instead aims to explore others, to solve problems that are not his own. He is future oriented and unconcerned with monetary gain – though he is wealthy, and though it may be expected of him. He can be methodical and precise, as well as spontaneous. He understands himself enough to recognize when his instinct can be relied on. He possesses a deep sense of self-acceptance, and is not troubled by self-doubt or other constraints that may restrict most of mankind."

Bernard had reacted self-consciously to this and bit his lip. But Dr. Seward did not know him well enough to have intended this to be an attack on his own person. The detective's fingers thrummed against the black hat. "Is Sir Hellsing a scientist then, Doctor? Does he run a lab and conduct research on his property?" Brown eyes reached green, only to have them look away in thought.

"Yes."

Bernard froze. The confession – rather, it was not really a confession, but instead an answer…it bore the same weight as a confession… An answer. ...His mind was muddled and then blank, but it quickly sprang to life. Hope fueled the man and the circles beneath his eyes seemed to become fainter as years dropped from his features. His eyes burned. "Can you describe his research? Why does it demand steel and so many other metals? Why is a percentage of the silver mined throughout Great Britain and her colonies sent to Sir Hellsing's estate? What is he making? What is this man producing?"

Dr. Seward had directed a distant look to the detective who sat across from him in his office, making a careful study of his intentions and what knowledge he might already have – what he might be hiding. But he found no outward trickery. "I suppose it has something to do with military work."

The detective almost reached a frenzy of excitement. Finally! Finally! Yes, finally I have something! "Weapons? Machinery? Why silver? Why the other chemicals?"

Dr. Seward laughed, startling Bernard who realized he had lost all sense of composure. The embarrassed man was derailed for a moment, but he recovered and forged on, though now a bit more collected. "What is he developing for the Queen, Doctor?"

"He is giving her nothing, personally."

The man's face fell at this response, and his pulse slowed. He felt as if he had hurtled into a wall, and some part of his brain was dazed, while the other part was kindling fire. The muscles in his arms and legs tightened. His fists clenched for a moment, and he even scowled to himself. "What military contribution, or contributions, is he making?"

"I haven't said that he has made any contributions. What I have said, is that he does research."

"Research." Bernard hissed darkly, causing green eyes to narrow, to await the new approach. The detective looked away, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair. His teeth appeared to be clenched. "I suspect Sir Hellsing," he began abruptly, his voice hard, his tone cynical, "because I have witness accounts telling me that a man of his likeness…has at times appeared at the scenes of these crimes."

Dark eyes found Seward. A single brow was arched as the doctor returned the gaze. "Is that so?"

"Yes."

"Reliable witnesses?"

"…I have a number that would be listened to... Yes, re- some are reliable."

"Some?"

The man's face scrunched with frustration and a flush of aversion for the doctor who seemed to be mocking him. His fingers tapped out aggravated beats against the armrests. The doctor has what I want, but he refuses to give it to me! Blast, these- this- this breed of infuriating men! If he were coarse and mean, and not so well-bred, I would gladly hate him! Disguised in good manners- That's all it is! "These crimes occur late at night and in questionable…districts… But I have two witnesses who were sober, who are educated men – men who are in the habit of reading, one even writes to the paper - who give a description of a foreigner in a red trench coat that matches Sir Hellsing."

Seward's eyes showed some of his pity, instantly sending Bernard's eyes into his lap, his teeth clenched. But that wasn't all he had. And when his eyes met with the doctor's once more, John Seward stiffened.

"I found a gun engraved with his name."

The response was immediate. "Anything can be engraved on a gun, Detective."

Bernard was quiet, and then he nodded slowly. "If he is producing weapons, then it would be an alternative explanation. But for what reason would a gun bear his name if it did not belong to him?"

"You expect me to answer your questions for you, Detective?"

The study was silent. Mr. Simmons checked his pocket watch and winced at the time. The coach would have left by now. When he looked up he realized Dr. Seward had just done the same. However, he was not asked to leave. But a change had overcome the doctor. He was tired.

Dr. Seward was on his feet and he invited his surprised guest to step over to his desk. As they stood together, Seward opened a drawer to reveal its contents. Before Bernard was able to recognize what he had seen in the drawer, it was shut, and a revolver lay on the desk.

The detective took a step back, his face showing his thoughts. Dark eyes shot to the man, then to the gun, and back to the man and so forth.

But the doctor's calm and lack of action reassured the detective, and when he was told to inspect the gun, he approached. He soon identified the engraving on the side.

Clearly written, it read: Hellsing – accompanied by other details that identified the weapon.

Bernard recoiled when he realized Dr. Seward had reopened the drawer, and watched as several bullets were placed on the desk - one after another, slowly touching down on the wooden surface…lining up in a row like little armored soldiers forming ranks…but they glistened like jewels. Immediately the gun was abandoned and the detective was held over the bullets, his face hovering, a power drawing him closer. His eyes wide, his lips parting - unable to believe what his eyes sent to his mind, the man picked up one bullet, and then a second, trading one bullet for another as he turned them about in the light and smudged their shining surfaces with his fingers.

He stared at the doctor.

"Ornamental bullets?" He scoffed, the abruptness catching Dr. Seward off guard. A contemptuous sneer spread across the doctor's lips as he read the man's thoughts, but the expression soon became a grimace as the detective failed to hide his revulsion. He did not look Mr. Simmons in the eye for a time.

"Is this what Hellsing has been making? Ornamental guns?" For the blasted- For this breed of men-!

Dark eyes returned to the gun and then to the bullets in his hand.

Do these weapons fire? Could one of these have killed a human being? -But then he was too overcome with disgust to think. The bullets were dropped onto the desk, banging and clattering with the graceful flow of anger and chaos. Two rolled onto the floor, smacking directly onto the wood, but Bernard could not be bothered to give a damn about the bullets or about his actions, which were not unruly in his mind – he did not feel compelled to care about anything at this time. "A perfect waste of resources!" He scoffed aloud, something akin to hatred in his eyes. He scowled at Seward, brimming with disdain. "You call him a scientist! Is this his research? Is this what a genius mind creates? Is it, Doctor? Well-" he broke off, moving away as he wandered, examining the office as he expected to uncover more of these –these ridiculous absurdities. "-you are a customer of his, so it is understandable. You and Sir Hellsing are-"

"It was a gift." A stare which held emotions much darker than the detective's, shot through Bernard, causing him to pause. But the disdain rushed back into his face to fill out a sardonic grin.

"Oh yes, of course Doctor. I understand." Bernard sneered to himself, turning from the doctor. He heard the drawer open roughly, the gun and bullets swept inside – with a crack it was slammed shut. Before the sound of the drawer had left Bernard's ears, the doctor was shoving something into his hand, frightening Bernard, who tried to refuse the object. When he looked down, he found a silver bullet in his grasp.

"Ask Van Hellsing to explain its meaning-" green bore down into the startled man's eyes as he tried to pull away, but he was held firm by the unrelenting doctor's grip on his arm, "-once you understand this, you will have your answers."

Nothing more was explained, despite the detective's questions. Bernard was asked to leave, and begrudgingly, he did so. He was escorted to the door by the doctor himself. Just before the detective descended the steps to reach the pavement, fuming and damning the man behind him, he heard an apology.

But when he turned, the door had just shut, leaving him alone in the night.

And there he stood for quite some time, staring at the closed door, at the curtains obstructing his view into the madhouse. Mist crowned the figures of streetlights with halos. And he knew that he had gained no understanding of Van Hellsing, nothing of what it is the man does within the confines of his mansion.

Gritting his teeth, but strangely sullen and ashamed of his actions, Mr. Simmons pulled down the rim of his hat, tucked his cane under his arm as he thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and he set off at a brisk pace, making his departure from the madhouse. He passed the halos, flashing in and out of obscurity, as his aching brain battled with the conundrums that knotted the tails of his thoughts, pronouncing that he could have neither peace nor order in his mind. The sheet of the present was again raised, and he gazed upon the glass eyes once more.

* * *

...

I'm in the process of editing the next chapter. I've already written 11 additional pages to this story, so the updates should come quickly. (this chapter was 10 pages)


	2. Chapter 2

He needed to meet with Sir Hellsing in person, but it was impossible to reach him. It appeared that many competed for the mysterious man's attention. So Bernard tried to track down his movements, but Hellsing's appearances in public were nothing if not phantom-like. He seemed to be whisked from one edge of the map to another, as if he flew under the cover of darkness, hiding from the detective, though Bernard knew that Sir Hellsing was most certainly oblivious to his existence. It was on the occasion that Mr. Simmons had aimed to intercept Sir Hellsing on his visit to a specific lawyer, that he managed to catch his first glimpse of the man, alive and breathing – rather than the photograph of Hellsing and the composite sketches that bore his resemblance, which were kept in the detective's desk.

Sir Hellsing exuded energy in the form of a strong and well-directed purpose. His person was neat, clean, and well-arranged. Hard black boots struck firmly against the cobblestones, and the man's red trench coat carried his motion into the carriage as he was leaving while Bernard looked after him, leaning against the bars of the fence enclosing the lawyer's business. Dark eyes were locked onto the fleeting form, the blonde hair, reddish – not perfectly gold – the strong features, broad shoulders and superior height, and he saw that the man's eyes were light, though Hellsing had not looked in his direction. Bernard brooded over this meeting, and he yearned to be able to approach the man, to speak with him. Perhaps to condemn him… The aura of authority he carried, which had reached Bernard over a distance of several yards, professed the man's power of intimidation, which he harbored and could release at any given time… At least, it was what the detective had perceived with his bias view.

"Like a child…" Bernard muttered to himself, seeing the man in his mind. He shook his head; doubt pinched his brow as he frowned. In no way could he see how Sir Hellsing might resemble anything so vulnerable or innocent – the daunting figure in crimson – much more in the semblance of the devil – he thought. The devil.

Though he had had no intention of contacting Dr. Seward again after their last meeting, Bernard resorted to the doctor's aid once more when scraping together a meeting with Hellsing proved to be impossible. Dr. Seward was polite, as if he had no grudge to bear against the detective who had insulted him, and prepared, with aggravating ease, a chance for Mr. Simmons to speak with Sir Hellsing. Dr. Seward presented the numbed detective with one of two tickets that were in his possession and told Bernard to arrive at the theatre house at the appointed time – a little early, as Dr. Seward was planning to arrive at this time himself. No words can express the fury this gave the detective, who now knew that Hellsing would indulge in entertainment rather than heed his requests for a moment (only a moment!) of his time.

The ticket rested in his pocket when Bernard ascended the steps of the theatre house, his cane resting in the crook of his arm and a stony mask composing his features. The crowds of people irritated his nerves, the stupid resentment of their being able to see Van Hellsing without investing the time and effort Bernard had spent – it, and everything around him, made Bernard bitter.

What's more, Dr. Seward was nowhere to be found. Bernard had arrived at St. James's Theatre an hour before the play was scheduled to begin, as had been the plan, but Seward did not arrive until minutes before the doors were to be shut. The detective said nothing and permitted the doctor to apologize.

"I was caught up – I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Detective. But I could not get around it. There was an unfortunate incident this morning – I hope you can excuse me for making you wait."

The stone lips parted to speak. "Under these circumstances, where do I have room to complain, Doctor? I'm relying on you; my convenience is of no concern." There was a huff that could not be controlled, and a lip jerked up into an unpleasant sneer. "You have your priorities, as Sir Hellsing seems to have his own. I have little standing in the matter." Both of you seem to be above me.

Dr. Seward regarded the detective as they entered the theater. His eyes fell upon nothing as they hardened. "I cannot predict the behavior of my patients, Detective. I had to deal with a man who tried to hang himself in his room this morning."

Bernard instantly regretted his rudeness; his body grew hot as blood rushed to his face. He swallowed and nearly tripped over his own feet, as if he could not escape his fate, destined to act as the eternal fool. "How was he able to have access to the rope necessary-?" He coughed as the stupid question was interrupted – horrified by his own temerity, which he dubbed 'idiocy' for the time being.

"This man had refused to allow his hair to be trimmed for many years. His daughter had eloped with a man of bad character and fled to France, after which the man refused to marry her and instead persuaded the simple child, who was convinced that she was deeply in love – a pitiable romantic - to become his mistress instead. The shock killed the wife, who had been ill at the time. Then, news was received that the daughter had died. Details were uncovered, revealing that the girl had resorted to prostitution after the man abandoned her. The details speak for themselves. This is more than enough to break an old man. …So," he continued, "with nothing in their power allowing them to take care of their father, the sons – grown and responsible for their own wives and children - sent the distraught man to a series of specialists, and eventually I received him. This morning he decided that his hair had grown enough. He pulled it out himself, possibly plucking a few strands at a time through the course of the night while he feigned sleep – men said to be without reason exhibit a remarkable reservoir of ingenuity and patience when they are desperate – he twisted the hair into a rope, tied it in the proper fashion, and was barely swinging when one of my assistants noticed what he had done and cut him down."

Bernard's blood had now withdrawn, and instead of red-faced and stumbling, when he sat in his seat he was pale, cold, and his motions were brittle. A chill had entered his bones, brought about by the calm account – the professional description of such tragedies and horrors. He had heard others pronounce such stories in a similar manner, but not with the insights of curiosity, of interest, as if the characters were creatures instead of men.

If he could not understand what kind of man Dr. Seward was, how could he hope to understand the crimson clad enigma?

Dr. Seward took his seat, his eyes facing the stage. Voices clattered against the high ceiling above them. "He's quite alright now. No more harm should come of him tonight… And so, that is why I was late, and I ask you to forgive me for having been distracted."

"Yes… Yes, forgive my rudeness." The detective mumbled; he was silent. Then, Bernard stiffened - a man stricken by a blow to the heart, he was run through by reality as the present shattered all distractions. All heat became ice, sharp as fear - his blood froze when he realized Dr. Seward had been greeted and asked to relate the finished story to the gentleman sitting beside him.

Creaking forward with his stiffened muscles breaking off bits of ice, Bernard peered across the engaged doctor and found Van Hellsing seated casually, though with an expression made serious by Dr. Seward's tale- but- regardless, there he was…within arm's reach. …The man who had eluded him for so long, and yet had consumed so many of his waking thoughts. Bernard could only allow his eyes to gape as he remained dumb and frozen in place, as the scene took on a momentary dream-like quality, the daze that follows the sudden conclusion of a goal reached without the proper climb, the breaching of the summit, which prepares the individual for the full impact of a well-earned achievement. There was no glorified triumph.

Quietly watching the man within this state of shock, Bernard allowed his lips to remain parted in dumbfounded surprise while Hellsing continued to be ignorant of his existence. But the cobalt eyes, almost supernaturally colored, drifted towards the detective once Seward had looked to the stage, as the lights dimmed down to darkness, and the faces of the men were hidden.

The play commenced, and silence was given.

Bernard's empty stare rested on the stage, limp and without feeling - which caused it to be oblivious of the colors, the costumes and voices, the perfectly and passionately delivered lines conceived by Oscar Wilde. Yes, he thought, grim and chilled, his skin rough and his hands, which held onto the hat in his lap, were damp and clammy. Those could indeed be the eyes of a murderer. They reach straight into the depths of your soul. They could tear the life from a body - effortlessly… That man possessed the eyes of a soldier…he might have…observed…and dealt mortal blows... …He could be a murderer…

Bernard would have to know more before he could decide whether the man possessed the necessary evil or madness that could make him the perpetrator of those terrible crimes. If he could be the last image witnessed by those glass eyes…

*~*~::..+..::~*~*

I am not the stronger man. But I am a good man. And, should he prove to be evil, good shall triumph - as ought to be the case.

During intermission they had stepped outside, in accordance to Dr. Seward's advice. They were within a faint patch of light as darkness crowded around them. The social creatures, which the men could not see, could be heard near the entrance of the theater house and in the streets, but secluded by walls of lifeless bricks and with unclean pavement beneath their polished shoes, the three men stood alone in isolation. Dr. Seward allowed some distance to separate himself from Van Hellsing and the detective. He permitted his eyes to revisit Hellsing's back, and at other times observed Bernard's face as the detective held his mask of stone in place to give himself the confidence to stand up to a possible evil – a strength which his nature lacked.

As a man, a human, death and evil made Bernard cower, and yet, they also made him rebel to reject their verdicts and unjust punishments. But Van Hellsing's eyes weighed down upon him as his superior figure inspired the instinct of flight far more strongly than any motivation to oppose Hellsing.

Detective Bernard F. Simmons swallowed, and yet could not find his voice. Sir Hellsing was the first to speak. And his voice was jarringly gentle, though deep and full of authority. The nature was disharmonious with the appearance of the man, who Bernard, despite the descriptions he had collected, expected to find a tyrant - a man cold and malicious, full of arrogance and disregard for his fellow human beings. But Sir Hellsing was all patience and kindness, though he did not wear these traits as easily as the doctor did upon his face.

"I apologize for the trouble you have had to go through in order to reach me. However, it is a pleasure to have made your acquaintance, and I hope that we can resolve what troubles you."

"You know why I wanted to speak with you?"

Van Hellsing responded with a calm affirmative, and it was apparent, when Bernard glanced at the doctor who stood on the outskirts of darkness, that Dr. Seward had been communicating with Sir Hellsing. Bernard did not approve, shown by his frown, though he was not surprised. It was just not to his preference. Van Hellsing had possessed plenty of time to prepare for this meeting. Maybe, it had even been planned to occur tonight… Who had been the first to know that they would meet at this theatre? The doctor…or had Hellsing purchased the tickets? It did not seem to be the kind of play that would interest these men…

Bernard took a breath. He visualized the pages of scribbles, how he had planned to accuse the man – or interrogate him… But his nerves…merely the sight of Van Hellsing set them quivering, his heart thudding, dizziness spinning. But he held his breath and then mastered his lungs, manually filling and emptying them – Bernard took control of his body.

First he would ask Sir Hellsing to reveal his whereabouts during the dates and hours the murders, or kidnappings, had taken place. Why would he have been in the vicinity, given that these areas were not appropriate for a man of his status? Sir Hellsing could produce an excuse, a woman or some miscellaneous favor, drinking - any sin - and this could be a lie or the truth which would place him at the scene of the crime for one, two, perhaps all of the disappearances. Or he could flatly deny the accusation, which could be a lie… Bernard was certain any denial would be a lie. Hellsing might claim it was another person, a regular doppelganger – but certainly, it would have to be a lie on his part.

Then he would ask about the gun with the engraving… Hellsing might make a denial similar to Seward's initial reaction. Or he might…possibly… (Bernard was still unsure what to make of his last visit to the doctor.) In order to explain Dr. Seward's gun…Hellsing might claim that it was his business to produce ornamental guns. He might have been selling them at those times...thus explaining his appearance near the scenes… But why the secrecy? Was he not supposed to use his material – the silver - for this purpose?

Bernard would have to see what direction the interrogation took. But the six lives… The detective was determined; he would confront this man tonight about the kidnappings, the possible murders…and he would uncover the secrets which had been plaguing him. He would find the men and women, or he would save them, if any – those who had not been uncovered at all…whose heads had not been found… Those who still breathed, he would save. He would find out if…if this man…could have possibly…in his lab… He would determine if Hellsing was a monster.

"Sir Hellsing," Bernard began, his voice hard and detached from his uncertain nature, addressing Van Hellsing without feeling fear or intimidation. His thoughts had hardened him, and made his expression colder than the stone mask he had worn but now had no need to wear. He looked directly into the cobalt eyes, a resolute pillar of justice. This was the crack of the anvil calling for silence, so that he may begin, so that he may be heard, and so that the truth might be revealed. "I have several eye-witnesses placing you near the sites of several disappearances, and, in one case, you were seen in the vicinity by a reputable fellow just an hour after midnight, and a quarter of an hour before this man uncovered a-" Bernard was incapable of saying this lightly, to speak of the vision that haunted him, "…a severed head."

Dr. Seward's jaw tightened in the background, and his body took on the qualities of petrified wood as he watched the detective. His eyes shifted to Van Hellsing, but found the man unchanged.

Hellsing's face was that of a man whose attention has been claimed, who is listening to the rebuttal against his argument or to a philosophy he had not before conceived plausible, but which had now gained legitimacy in his eyes. It was interest in something that concerned himself, but which also concerned something more than himself. The man was silent, and the detective was allowed to continue.

"Can you explain why you might have been in the area at the time, Sir Hellsing? Business or pleasure… Or has some mistake been made? This is your chance to make matters clear." There was nothing reserved or respectful in the way Bernard spoke, his tone was callous and pessimistic, but he was unconscious of this. At this moment, he himself did not exist, only the matter that had consumed his life. He watched Hellsing as if the crimson man had no power in the world, and as if he himself would be able to see past any lie the man tried to weave. Hellsing was a criminal in his eyes. Nothing more. The greatness, the intimidation, all of that was gone.

"You want an explanation?"

"Yes Sir. That is what I have asked you to give me. Are you capable of providing one?"

Van Hellsing looked at the man, and he understood him. Bernard believed that he was speaking to a liar, although Hellsing was not the kind of man who would do such a thing unless he felt that it was justified. But to lie to a man like Mr. Simmons, who was only goodness in this case... There was no such justification to be made. "I do have an explanation."

"So you are admitting that you were there?" A fragment of the resolve that had encased Bernard flaked away from his protective shell. A fissure had raced up from the base of his frame.

So is this arrogance? Or will it amount to only partial truth?

Bernard was struggling, because he could not see the evil he longed to find in the crimson man.

Sir Hellsing continued, speaking as though the conversation were serious simply because it was interesting. It did not appear as if he were defending himself against anything at all. "I was there on business, perhaps. I do not know what locations you are referring to, but I am aware of some crimes and a percentage of the disappearances that are reported here in London. Where exactly have I been spotted?"

More of the shell began to crumble as Bernard gave Sir Hellsing the names of the streets, presenting the names of households in some cases.

"I have heard, or recall hearing something of what you have mentioned. The woman who had been beheaded, I recall her case specifically."

"Do you mean to say that you met these people?"

Sir Hellsing's expression revealed nothing as he stated, "I read the newspaper regularly. It is partly my business to track the crime in the cities, Detective- …Is Bernard Simmons your given name-?"

"Yes."

They were quiet. Hellsing did not offer to inflate his paltry explanation, so Bernard tried to recall what had been admitted so far. "What would have required you to be in these parts at such a late hour, Sir Hellsing? I have been unable to understand what it is you do. Dr. Seward has said that you are a scientist, possibly, that you do research…" Bernard's sentence died as he saw the spark of amusement in Van Hellsing's gaze, a smile lifting the corner of Hellsing's lips. It disturbed the detective as it suggested that he had been wrong, that the intellectuals – these men – were playing with him, but it also disturbed him because it was not malicious. It was not evil. There was no obvious evil in Hellsing. But there must be – somewhere!

A growl of pure frustration made Bernard harsh as he suddenly demanded – knocking the humor from Hellsing's eyes, "What is it you do, Sir Hellsing? Can you explain to me what your business was on the nights these people disappeared and Emma Brown was murdered?"

"I cannot tell you, Detective- Forgive me, but my business is not for you to know. I can tell you that I do not murder or abduct men and women. …This cannot make your job any easier, and that is unfortunate. But as these things are…I cannot give you an explanation, though I would like to help you with your investigation. You only have noble intentions, and I do not mean to look down upon them or disrespect them."

The hardened resolve drained as it slowly rotted away, decomposing within the detective who could not determine what it was he now felt or believed. All he could think to do was assault the man with more evidence. A tremor had entered his frame, and he knew it and fought against the perpetual weakness. "A gun bearing your name was found near the bloody traces of what we expect- of what I expect is another victim, Sir Hellsing." Bernard spoke as if he could not breathe.

Sir Hellsing's face, at this moment, mirrored the unforgivable pity Dr. Seward had shown the detective when this evidence had been brought up in the madhouse. Bernard's heart rate escalated - he became flushed and his brow dewed with perspiration.

Dr. Seward observed these changes, as did Sir Hellsing – who was less concerned by them.

"Why do you fit these guns with silver bullets? Do you think that can make them harmless? Take the meaning and purpose of a bullet – to strip it of its- of its purpose as a weapon?" The detective was beside himself, but Hellsing chose to ignore these signs. He let the wild stammering compose a riot of accusations within the semi-darkness. "What can- What are they for? Why the silver bullets? You make them- they must have come from you Sir Hellsing! The silver- the shipments- crate after crate of steel-! And the chemicals-!" A shrill note came from the detective. "What is it you do with them, Sir Hellsing? You kidnap them?" Bernard demanded to know, seeing the victims, the bloodstains and sticky clothes plastered with gore. These human lives! Taken away! "For what purpose? Are they your specimens? Human beings-! Is that your research? Do you use men and women- Do you experiment on them? Locking them away in your lab, like a dungeon-! Your property is guarded! Guarded like it was Buckingham Palace, for Christ's sake! All of this-! The shipments- the people, and supplies, and food, and-! But why the silver bullets? I don't understand! These- these bullets! Why these silver bullets? Why, Hellsing? What are they?" Bernard gasped for breath, his face crimson with his throbbing emotions and dampened by rolling beads of perspiration as his chest heaved, in and out. He felt the film of sweat above his upper lip and wiped it away with his sleeve – faint, disoriented…the shame came crashing down upon him, wave after wave, mounting – the tsunami triggered by his eruption, when the earth had shook beneath his passion. With a violent crack, he stamped his heal into the pavement and turned away to hide himself in the shadows, to hide his self-loathing, his despair and his all-consuming frustration.

He was filled with rage – it was why he had lost control. He paced and pulled on the back of his hair, not to harm himself, but the action seemed to ease his anxiety, to allow him to breathe and to compose himself. He paced and tried to forget the men who watched him. A handkerchief dabbed at his brow and fanned him awkwardly, weakly…pathetically. Bernard stumbled, and here he finally stopped, amazed to find that he had almost trampled his hat which he found lying on the pavement – the pavement which had managed to avoid soap and water for years as if it were escaping the plague.

Bernard had not realized it had fallen from his head. Now his cane- Where was his cane? It was on the pavement - this filthy pavement! - in Hellsing's direction. Had he thrown it? Dear Lord! What had come over him? How could he have done this and not realized it? He had not been himself! Somehow, he blamed Hellsing for all this – but he did not do so without strong feelings of shame.

Dr. Seward was speaking, but the detective would not meet his eye. "You are overtired, Sir. I think you should return home, or that we should spend the rest of the intermission in the company of others. I am sure that you would feel more comfortable. We can speak again when you have recovered – perhaps on a day when you have had more sleep."

'Sir'… the detective's head was bowed. Am I reduced to acting like a madman, now? To have him address me as if I were his patient! –as he seems like the kind of man who would call a raving loon, 'Sir' or 'Madam'. But I am not mad- I am sane. I am sane, and I am right. –He glared in Hellsing's direction, not allowing his eyes to touch the man directly before they were cast away to wallow in feelings of shame.

Bernard was granted ample time to compose himself and then voice his answer. The man could not bring himself to retrieve his cane. He could not go near Sir Hellsing. But Van Hellsing did not allow Bernard to indulge in his desire to avoid him. With what appeared to be a proposal for peace, Van Hellsing took a step towards the cane, bent and picked it up before going to the detective and returning it to him. It hovered over the pavement for several moments as Bernard was hesitant to take it. The damage could be seen in the dim light, and once inside, Bernard knew that he would be able to see the numerous dents and scratches his cane had sustained.

Without speaking, the cane was accepted, but not as an olive branch, for the detective promptly stepped away in as cold a manner as possible just to make this clear. Bernard tried to control his breathing before he proceeded to speak in a calm voice, one that tried to obscure his lingering distress, "I would like to speak with you again after the play is finished, Sir Hellsing. Or, are you going to tell me that you do not have time for that? You have nothing more to say to me?"

"I will speak with you after the play if that is what you wish, Detective."

Calm, composed, patience and kindness… Where is the evil in this man? Where is it!

In silence they returned to the theatre house and took their seats. The play soon resumed, and again Bernard did not watch a single moment of it. The sheet had been lifted, and his eyes bore the images of other things.

However, the indecision of Lady Windermere, whom the play revolved around, as she desperately sought to understand if she had made the right choice by leaving her unfaithful husband – spoke to Bernard. It made his stomach churn as the anxiety contained in a matter in no way related to his own situation, was able to exhibit some of the turmoil the detective had experienced all his life, over the simplest and most difficult of problems. Bernard meant to look away, not to listen, to close himself to protect his fragile state. But the emotions played upon his own, and they directed the tides and currents of his thoughts and moods.

After the play, Dr. Seward had to depart – his time for pleasure had expired, as he deftly put it. Bernard was left alone with the man he suspected of murder, of harboring the devil – his nerves trembled and he could not help but fidget. Afraid, demoralized, ashamed, but also frustrated…it was the frustration, the hope that hard work is ultimately rewarded, which kept Bernard from leaving, from throwing up his hands in despair and weeping tears of bitterness.

Sir Hellsing continued to show only goodness, but the detective was uncomfortable when the man proposed that they take a late-night drive so that they could continue their 'discussion' in his coach. Hellsing knew the driver to be a man who could hold his tongue – apparently – or that it wouldn't matter if the man heard their discussion or chose not to listen.

Not in a state to disagree or come up with a better alternative – the thought of returning to the site of his shameful performance, or another similar to it, caused Bernard to shudder – he followed Sir Hellsing into the coach and sat across from him. Leather creaked with awkwardness. The battered cane lay across his knees, and Bernard was only too conscious of its appearance. Sir Hellsing glanced at it, but said nothing. Then the coach pulled away from the theatre and the clopping of hooves sounded outside.

Again Van Hellsing was the first to speak.

"I have already told you that I have not committed the crimes the police are investigating."

Bernard chose not to respond, he kept his gaze directed away from Hellsing. Nothing was said, but blue took in the form of the fatigued detective, remaining to examine the ringed eyes, the lined mouth. Van Hellsing pitied the man – he felt responsible for his pain. He liked Bernard, in some way, and respected his intentions and even his character – the faults it contained were irrelevant to the whole. He was a good man with a good heart, and selfless to a degree others only speak of becoming. It hurt Hellsing that this man perceived him as an evil figure.

"Do you think I am a man who would be capable of the things you described, Detective? …You believe that I would take human lives for my own selfish purposes?" Bernard had no reaction for Hellsing to observe, and as he refused to look at Hellsing, Bernard did not see the quiet emotion that showed in the blue eyes as they watched him.

Hellsing could not tell the man to let go of the cases that haunted him.

"Would you like to ask me any more questions, Detective? I have the time to give you what I can."

Bernard began to turn his cane, rolling it as if it were an unfurled newspaper. "Dr. Seward," his voice was quiet, but loud enough to be heard clearly, "told me that I would have my answers if I understood the meaning of the silver bullets."

Dark eyes shifted to Hellsing when he was silent, and found the man looking out the window thoughtfully. In his lap, Hellsing's hands were working, as if molding a clay form. When his head turned to Bernard again, the dark eyes darted away, finding the cane that began to be rolled meticulously, as if it needed to be thinner.

"You think the bullets are purely ornamental?"

The cane stopped and then gradually continued its rotation. Bernard swallowed and bit his lip as he took a breath to ease himself. "They are not just for appearances?"

"No. The guns that fire them work the same as any other gun might."

"…And you are the one who makes them?"

"Not myself personally, but I have a part in their production and distribution."

"…And they are simply normal guns? There is no reason that they use silver bullets?"

Van Hellsing would not answer, though Bernard looked to him expectantly. His apologetic expression told Bernard that he had entered a topic related to the man's 'business'. "Why did you give one of these guns to Dr. Seward?"

"So that he might protect himself."

Startled, Bernard frowned. "From whom?" Dark eyes were raised again and met with the cobalt gaze. "Is someone threatening Dr. Seward? Does he have many enemies?"

"No. I had no one in particular in mind when I gave it to him. He already owned another, and this gun would only improve his security."

"What would a doctor need with a gun? Would you seriously consider…that he is capable of shooting a man? Is it to protect himself from his patients?" Bernard recalled the sympathy with which Dr. Seward seemed to accept that his insane tenants were not responsible for their actions. He believed that they were innocent. Then…if he could not blame them… Could he kill them, despite this?

"No, John would not…" Van Hellsing paused, reconsidering what he had said. A strange and saddened smile altered his features, and for the time he seemed to look through Bernard. He saw other things. "No, John would be capable of killing in order to protect himself and his staff, or others, given the situation. He could shoot a man."

"Do you suggest that he has killed?"

Hellsing looked at Bernard sharply, seeing the detective again, and frowning at the question. "No. Now do you suspect him of murder as well, Detective? Can anyone become a suspect for you? John has done nothing."

"-While you have done something."

At this Van Hellsing became cold, though not hostile. Blue eyes were narrowed and searched the stone mask that had been placed over Bernard once again. The man has convinced himself that I'm the devil, and so he takes John to be the devil's helper.

Mr. Simmons excused himself and requested that the coachman stop. He then left Sir Hellsing, who had not made an effort to dissuade him from leaving, and stalked off into the night. Van Hellsing sat in silence long after the detective had disappeared, brooding for a time. Finally, he asked to be taken back to the Hellsing estate where memories of Bernard troubled him before he retired for the night.


End file.
